Despite my growing fears
by WordMouse
Summary: Shaun muses on what life becomes between Lucy's death and Desmond's return to the waking world. A drabble from Shaun's prospective on the events of Revelations. Implied gei affections.    Spoiler: The story has more of them than the summary does.


**Title: _Despite my growing fears _**

**Author: **_WordMouse_

**Fandom:** _Assassin's Creed_

**Summary:** _Shaun muses on what life becomes between Lucy's death and Desmond's return to the waking world. _

_**Disclaimer:**__ I disclaim ownership of Assassin's creed. I don't own jack and all that jack entails, Ubisoft does._

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><p>It barely made any sense, as sudden as it was. The blink of an eye, less than half of a moment, and things fell so very far apart. That blasted THING lay a foot from where they'd fallen. Lucy painting the altar a rich dark red from beneath herself. Desmond strewn alongside her, fingers outstretched towards it.<p>

Barely a second to register that this was real, and that the sudden crumbling of what had been mere breaths before had not been a dream. This was not some obtuse idea of a universal joke. It should not have taken the sudden rumbling of footsteps for you to realize that yes Shaun, this IS happening. Your friend is dead, and your not-sure-exactly-what just snapped and killed her in cold blood in less than the span of time it took you to blink.

It takes a second to register that Rebecca is screaming somewhere off to your right and that you are no longer the only four (_three, because that pretty red has spread far too wide to allow the number four to ever be used in context of what there now is_) people in the room.

You contemplate what time cannot explain.

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><p>The skyline is glorious. The sun shining in mockery of what lies below, (beneath). Fresh sod rustling softly against the breeze, and the pigeons coo along the ledge of the roof above you. The stone before you reads a name not familiar to the person beneath it. The knowledge that the value of a single life is so very little, and that the fourth of what was will stay in death as faceless a number as the 16 given to a nameless man long dead and past salvation.<p>

All too soon the sun's solidarity trembles and the sky grows a murky gray. Wind blows the shivering foliage into a heavy spasm akin to a seizure, and the left pocket of your trousers begins vibrating. The swift flip of plastic and silicone is a knife in already wounded defenses and responses are slow to grow in the numbness you stand in.

Numbness begins to burn to a stead boiling dullness. The burn in your throat as the familiar evil of spite spills into ears not beside you. A revocation stands in a solid wall of doubt as words from far away repair the dam of distrust in your mind. Broken bits of the whispers in your ear scatter as they ricochet against the fourth stone. Shattered pieces of voices far away dig into your knees as bravery and dullness gives way to despair. Duty demands you remain solid and the rise is quick as you turn away.

The sky cracks in the distance as the earth allows tears to fall that you cannot.

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><p>An apple sits in hands not entirely unlike those from before. Idle and silent in the fingers aged by stress and time. The eyes of their owner lit up in delight and wonderment, ignorant of the poison beneath it's peel. A noxious gas that silences all those in sight of it, hidden at it's core. The seeds of it's deception not clearly displayed.<p>

He is not special, the owner of the hands mouth says dismissing words of discomfort and fear from Rebecca. Desmond is. Desmond is special. The best and brightest of us all, you think as you view the silent unresponsive form of your burden. He hasn't stirred, not once since he painted the altar a pretty dark red beneath the leader of your merry band. He appears dead in his own right, not a shiver or twitch to prove his presence. The steady beeping from above the animus and slight movements he makes are the only betrayal of death's ruse.

Even now, though you are not alone the silence is thick beneath the inaction you feel. Movement is needed, movement and progression creates history. Actions and effects to follow movement and leave a record of time passed in it's wake. There is no history here. Unchanging in it's stillness, time makes this silence death.

Rebecca snores softly while behind you the apple observes it's beholder. The silence must end and your fingers move of their own accord, reaching to touch the still death that lay before you. Running thumbs across the softness which expels warm spice scented air, history tries to record itself in your movements. Time shortens in the future you're creating and softness meets softness in a silent clash.

A flicker of an eyelid and the twitch of a fingertip brings the eye of the beholder down upon you both.

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><p>"Were they close?", the inquiry is not one of compassion or curiosity. Yes, you think against want. There is only contemplation in the words floating before you. As if a million spiders are threading long billowing mindscapes blowing gently as shear fabric in the wind. Your response is clipped and devoid of any sarcasm, spilling only bitterness into the open air.<p>

A reply mimicking some amount of sadness finds it's way back to you. The knowledge that a father and son sit in company that is far apart. A forest of years of separation is covered in a blockade permeating in the stillness of this not-death. Soft breaths and muted momentary responses climb slowly upwards to create a staircase where the assurance that soon the forest will be razed and the blockade pulled into the dirt.

Later in the night a hand at your shoulder offers much needed comfort and words of approval assure you that your gaze is not without notice. That this sacrifice of numbers is not without a solution. All too suddenly the reluctance to pull away is pushed aside as the patchwork dam collapses and soft arms encircle your waist.

The loud cries of mourning echo throughout the van accompanied by soft sobbing whimpers from the arms below. The tangle of waning hope and salty tears migrate to lie at either side of their silent companion, as the father lays a comforting gaze across his brood.

The numbers are fluctuating in the air before you, and there are four once more.

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><p>You have a destination, out of the air as you have been for days. The still silent hero guides you along without his knowledge. The keys fit together one by one as the wheels turn in a forward motion. The road is leading you back to the forest and doubts trickles away as certainty builds anew. This will work, history knows what you cannot and it speaks through this half sleep. A future is within reach which is not dimmed by limitations.<p>

Excitement reeks a welcome stench in this armored cage. The silent hero reaches his perch and dives into the final vault. This library of information a symbol to the relevance of a single man's history. An apple with poison at it's core peeled at the meat.

The aged eagle appraises what remains of it's fallen for-father, taking into him a memory within a memory. The eagles speaks to the man of the world, and visions of those who came before playing in tandem with a rising heart rate. And suddenly Desmond is awake and he knows, and everything is a little better off.

Desmond doesn't notice, but the rain finally comes and you're happy to have him home.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Dear ...Rebecca is not a typo. Also, you know what I don't like...this format.


End file.
